For those who have loved ones that have transitioned, the holidays can make that grief journey feel extra heavy and the hole of loss extraordinarily large. I see posts in my social feed about what friends are missing out on because their loved one is absent. About how much sorrow and longing sags on their heart. The “they should be here for this” pain dragging down any hope of joy.

This article is for you.

Before sharing my perspective, I’ll first tell you a little about my own grief journey. I grew up with a bi-polar mother. We weren’t sure which mom we’d get each day. The wildly creative and artistic fun mom, who would play pranks and surprise us with doodling cartoons on our lunch bags…or the mom who didn’t have the energy to prepare meals and needed to nap most of the afternoon. Add in a tumultuous marriage, and she spent many nights crying herself to sleep next to me in my bed.

As a young-adult, I learned that she lost her first child, who was to be my older sister, Michelle. (A middle name later given to my younger sister.) My mother was six months pregnant when the baby growing inside her had stopped moving. The doctor confirmed Michelle had died in-utero. In those days, and maybe it was because she was Catholic and abortion forbidden, the doctors could not assist in the process. My mother had to wait until her body naturally passed Michelle. She was nearly to term when that happened. Almost three months of carrying a dead child in her womb and so much grief in her heart.

My father says she was never the same after that. He claimed that was the biggest reason for their divorce.

Growing up, my mom shared a little about how we should have had an older sister. I didn’t realize how deep her grief went until I read some of her journal entries after her suicide. She mentioned looking forward to seeing Michelle again.

There were many other factors and variables that added to her depression over her lifetime, but I think losing her first child was a hole she never figured out how to fill, and it simply expanded from there. What my mother didn’t realize, though, was how much it trickled down and not only robbed her of her own joy of life, but also at the expense of her kids and relationships.

After my mom’s suicide, I carried that grief like a boulder anchoring me to the sea floor miles under water. In part, from guilt over all my “woulda, coulda, shoulda” self-blame for not preventing it and keeping her alive. The other part was simply because I thought my pain and suffering would somehow prove how much I loved her. I believed that if I forgot about her for a single moment, or if I felt joy, that I was betraying her and the memory of her.

It took me eighteen years to finally understand that’s simply not true, and its martyrdom.

When you love someone, you never want them to suffer. You never want them to feel pain. There is no soul that would transition out of their human body and desire their loved ones to grieve their absence. They aren’t expecting any “proof” of love through suffering. If anything, proof of love is in maximizing the experience of life…especially on their behalf. They celebrate our successes and our joy, even more so in spirit form where there are no thought prisons.

It is a great honor and a privilege for a soul to recieve a human body for a lifetime. To have this human experience is a cherished treasure of an opportunity. When we spend the limited time we have in this form on wishing circumstances were different – including in grief, resentment, fear and anger – I can picture our loved ones in spirit form exasperated at wasting so much of our potential.

When we dwell on what we’re missing out on and the hole they left, we’re not actually living our lives. We’re wasting the chance to experience all the joys of being human. All the experiences of having a body that our soul was excited to participate in. The very same experiences that our loved ones are no longer capable of having.

It would be like telling a paraplegic family member that because they can’t walk, you’ve decided to not use your fully-functioning legs. In fact, you’ve decided to have them amputated…just to show your love. I can imagine they’d smack you upside the head and tell you that you better use those legs and keep them strong and healthy.

Isn’t it better to honor their memory by living life to the fullest? To let them witness you enjoying each moment and to let them be proud of how you’re utilizing this life?

My wish for everyone who’s ever experienced the death of a loved one: may your heart feel peace, may you give yourself permission to experience joy in all things, may that joy amplify in your relationships with others still here, and may you honor those in spirit form by living fully.